


The First Day of the Rest of Your Life

by KiranInBlue



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (Comics)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Robots, Season/Series 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2018-03-18 02:11:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3552143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KiranInBlue/pseuds/KiranInBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jonathan's first day in his new body.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First Day of the Rest of Your Life

Coming into consciousness was literally flipping a switch. The first moment, there was nothing - not even a memory of oblivion. The next, Jonathan could feel the weight of fabric on his skin, the slight chill of Andrew's workshop.  

He opened his eyes.

Living as a hologram had been a strange experience. Andrew had done what he could to make Jonathan as comfortable as possible - he'd fitted his duplex with holographic projectors to give Jonathan freedom of movement throughout the house, and he'd spent most evenings at home, helping Jonathan catch up on four years of pop culture (Jonathan had been particularly devastated to learn that Enterprise had been cancelled). And yet, for Jonathan, the utter lack of sensation felt like a smothering weight pressed down around him. He couldn't feel the carpet under his feet; he was immune to the heat of the California sun. Yesterday, Andrew had scorched his dinner, and Jonathan hadn’t been able to smell the smoke.

Now, the lab table was cold under his fingers, and as he curled his hands, he felt his skin slide over the brushed steel.

As his vision came into focus, he saw Andrew hovering overhead with an apprehensive expression on his face.

“Jonathan?”

And _that_ was what sound was supposed to feel like. Not that weird, echo-y thing that filtered directly into his consciousness as a hologram, without passing through eardrums or ossicles. Jonathan worked his jaw for a moment, feeling his tongue shift in his mouth.

“Ye-ah?” His voice stuttered, and so he swallowed, and tried again: “I’m here.”

Andrew’s face broke into an enormous grin.

“Can you sit up?” he asked. “Wiggle your fingers and toes?”

Jonathan obeyed. And as he pushed himself up on his hands, he marvelled at the shift of his muscles. He’d missed even this as a hologram - the tensing and relaxing of his limbs as he moved. He leaned forward and brought his hands in front. He clenched and unclenched his fists a few times, letting the nails press in against the skin for just a heartbeat. Then, he flexed his toes, and looked back to Andrew.

“Seems fine,” he said.

And then, Jonathan was almost bowled backwards as Andrew lurched forward to throw his arms around him.

There was one arm wrapped around the back of Jonathan’s neck, and the other was thrown around his waist, pinning his left hand to his hip. Jonathan’s nose was smooshed up against Andrew’s shoulder; he could feel his own shoulder digging into Andrew’s chest. Andrew tucked in his chin so that his face was pressed into Jonathan’s hair - and when had Andrew gotten so tall anyway?

Jonathan brought up his free hand to return the hug. The fabric of Andrew’s shirt shifted under his fingers. He clenched his fist, letting the fabric bunch up in his hand, and breathed.

He clung to Andrew, his consciousness narrowing down to every point of contact - back, waist, face, shoulder, hand. Andrew was warm. Jonathan could _feel._

When Andrew finally pulled back, Jonathan let go with some reluctance.

“So, how does it feel to be back?” Andrew asked, beaming.

“Not bad,” Jonathan replied. “Nice, I guess. Really nice.”

Andrew grinned, and helped Jonathan down from the work table. Jonathan expected to feel a little shaky on his new legs, but they worked under him as if they were the same legs he’d grown up with for twenty-two years.

“There you go - you’re all regenerated, like The Doctor!” Andrew announced. “So what do you wanna do? Today’s all yours. You give the word, and we celebrate your return any way you desire.”

“Um . . . “ Jonathan considered, staring at the fingernails on his hands.

How _did_ one return from the dead? Ever since Andrew promised to build him this body, he’d considered hundreds, thousands of things he’d wanted to do as soon as he was corporeal again. Take an hour long shower, LARP, go to a San Francisco nightclub, read with the proper weight of a book in his hands . . . but now, as he stood, feeling the solid ground press up against his heels, he found all those ideas seemed suddenly far less appealing.

“We could go into San Francisco,” Andrew suggested eagerly. “I could show you the Lucasfilm building! We can’t actually go inside, but, uh, there’s a Yoda statue right outside, which is really cool. Or there’s the Pirate Store. But there’s a lot in Oakland too, like the magazine store, Issues. Or--!”

“You know,” Jonathan broke in. “I think . . . I just want to go outside.”

Andrew blinked. “Outside?”

“Yeah. You know, just, be outside for a while. Hang out. Is there somewhere I can do that?”

“Well,” Andrew said, considering. “There’s a park down the street. Is that what you had in mind?”

“That sounds great, actually.”

Andrew looked at him for just another beat, but shrugged off the surprise. “Come on, then! I got shoes for you upstairs, and I’m gonna show you exactly why Oakland knocks San Fran out of the park.”

Andrew turned, and bounced out of the workshop, eagerly gesturing for Jonathan to hurry up. Jonathan followed after him.

Upstairs, Jonathan found a pair of sneakers set by the door - white, with navy blue accents. They hadn’t been there that morning; Andrew must have laid them out after powering down Jonathan’s holographic program in preparation to transfer him into the robot body.

Robot body. It was still an odd thought. The skin stretched like it always had - like _human_ skin. It was hard to believe any of his body was synthetic. As Jonathan crouched down by the shoes, he let his knuckles rap hard against the wood floor. It hurt - Jonathan wondered if he’d bruise.

He slipped the shoes on, and stood back up.

“They fit perfectly,” he announced, a little bemused.

“Well, _duh_.” Andrew was standing behind him, having already pulled on his own pair of worn, black loafers. “I sorta built your feet. I know what size you wear.”

“Right,” Jonathan said. “That, uh. Makes sense.”

Andrew passed by him and pulled open the front door. He stood to one side, and then gestured outside with a flourish. “Well - shall we?”

At some level, Jonathan expected his foot to vanish as he breached the limits of the holographic projectors that had been his lifeline for the past month. He held his breath - but as he stepped over the entryway, he remained solid. And then he was standing on Andrew’s front porch, the morning sunlight filtering under the awning to warm his skin.

Jonathan glanced back into Andrew’s house, then grinned, and leapt down the front stairs to the sidewalk below.

The sky overhead was cloudless, and the clear blue stretched all the way to the horizon, where it was lightened by a stretch of far-off smog. The air was hot and muggy, unseasonably warm for a Californian November. There was no breeze, but Jonathan revelled in feeling the heat press in around him. He tugged slightly at the collar of his shirt.

“It’s hot,” he said wonderingly. “Will I sweat?”

“Yeah,” Andrew replied. He locked the front door behind them, and then came down the stairs to stand beside Jonathan on the sidewalk. “Like I told you - it’s gonna be exactly like having your real body back, minus the asthma and the anemia.”

“But you couldn’t make me taller?”

“Sorry, dude. But like I said, I didn’t want to mess with the original specifications too much ‘cause there could be side effects.”

“Hmph,” Jonathan said, but he was smiling. He held out a hand in front of him and curled the fingers in and out. The palm was already a little clammy, and it had to be the first time in his life that the thought made him feel giddy.

Jonathan turned his gaze up to the sky and watched as a seagull passed overhead. During the last month, he’d sat in front of the windows and stared out for hours. Sometimes, Andrew would open the window properly for him, but it’d always been strange to see the leaves of Andrew’s houseplants fluttering in a breeze he couldn’t feel.

But now - he was properly outside, no walls around him, and the same heat that was shimmering over the asphalt was making sweat prickle at the back of his neck. Jonathan felt the inexplicable urge to laugh, but he just bit his cheek and rubbed hard at the grin on his face.

Andrew turned down the sidewalk, and glanced back at Jonathan. “Come on - the park is this way!”

“Yeah, okay.”

Almost in a daze, Jonathan followed after Andrew. People passed by them on the sidewalk, and they politely stepped out of Jonathan’s way when he got close - people could _see_ him, people were worried about bumping _into_ him.

Andrew led him around the corner and down two blocks. At the corner there, a mid-sized park stretched out the size of three city blocks; at the far side, there was a small playground, with a twisty slide and several swings, and closer to Jonathan and Andrew, a small pond lay below a weeping willow and a stone bench. Walkways wound through the grass, and a handful of people were sprawled out on the lawn or tossing frisbees to one another.

“So . . . ,” Andrew said slowly, turning to glance at Jonathan. “What do you wanna do here?”

“I dunno. Just walk around, I guess.”

Andrew looked mildly disquieted, as if he’d hoped Jonathan’s park plan had involved something with a little more ceremony for his grand day out. But he nodded, and stepped back to let Jonathan lead the way.

Jonathan strolled down the walkway toward the pond, hands in his pockets. Andrew trailed behind.

At the pond, Jonathan crouched down at the bank and ran a finger through the water. It was cool against his skin. Then he splayed out his hand wide and rested his palm against the surface, feeling the water tension curl around his hand.

Andrew stood by the bench, constantly shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His restlessness was palpable, but when Jonathan glanced back to him, Andrew only smiled encouragingly.

“Everything working okay?” Andrew asked.

“I think so. I’m waterproof, right?”

“Well, yeah. I wouldn’t give you sweat but not the ability to _shower_.” Andrew wrinkled his nose.

“So I can swim,” Jonathan said thoughtfully.

He remembered the old community pool in Sunnydale, how he’d found peace in the flow of water over his skin and the odd silence of being underwater. He’d loved diving under and watching the lazy movements of the other swimmers around him. And while he hadn’t returned to the water since his run-in with the swim team in junior year . . . it was a possibility. He _could_.

“Sure,” Andrew agreed. “But, uh, I wouldn’t recommend doing that here.” He peered disconcertedly at the pond.

Jonathan glanced at him, eyebrows lifted. “I know _that._ I was just saying.”

“Oh. Well, good.”

They lapsed into silence for a moment. Andrew settled himself down on the stone bench and leaned back on his hands as he watched Jonathan at the bank of the pond.

“Hey,” Andrew said finally. “When you’re done here, we should probably hit IKEA at some point today.”

Jonathan glanced over at him. “IKEA? What for?”

“Well, to get you a bed, for one thing. And a dresser, and a desk, and whatever else you need.”

Jonathan blinked. “A bed?” he said slowly. “Why are we getting me a bed?”

Andrew lifted an eyebrow and shot Jonathan an exasperated look. “I made you a sleep program, remember?” he said. “Where did you think you were gonna sleep?”

“Um. The couch?”

But Andrew snorted. “Dude, I’m not making you sleep on the couch indefinitely.”

“But . . . uh. Where would you put a bed?”

“I’m turning my workshop into your room,” Andrew replied breezily.

Jonathan stared. “You - you want to turn your workshop into a room forme?” he echoed. “And get me furniture?”

“Well, sure. I’m done building your body so I don’t really need the workshop anymore, and you need somewhere to stay.”

“But,” he said weakly. “That’s . . . that’s a lot.”

Andrew just shrugged, and there was a small smile on his lips. “You’re my friend.”

“But _still_!” Jonathan protested. “That’s . . . that’s expensive, and I-I don’t have any money.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Andrew replied. “I got it. Seriously.”

Jonathan swallowed, and moved over to the bench. He sat down heavily next to Andrew, his eyes fixed on the ground at his feet. There was an odd tightness in his belly.

“Thanks,” he muttered. “I-I’ll pay you back, sometime. I promise.”

Again, Andrew shrugged. “Dude, I think you have it backwards on who owes who.” His voice was light - but there was a brittle note in it Jonathan had heard too many times over the past month.

Quickly, Jonathan glanced at Andrew, then dropped his gaze back to the earth. “No, I don’t,” he said quietly.

“Hey, you _know_ what I did.”

“Yeah,” Jonathan replied. “But I’m not - I’m not _that_ Jonathan.”

“Of course you are!” Andrew protested. “Just ‘cause you’re in a robot body doesn’t make you a different person.”

“It’s not the robot thing!” he retorted, and this time, he turned to look properly at Andrew. Andrew glanced away, and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Y-you keep talking about how I tried to turn you to the path of good, or how I stood up to Warren, or how I looked after you in Mexico. You say that I wanted to find that seal to show Buffy and save everyone, even the people who made high school a hell for me - you say I’m a hero. But I’m not _him_! The last thing I remember is Warren making that robot for Spike, and then him coming up with the bright idea to save all our personalities and memories electronically. Everything after that - that’s not me. That’s the _other_ Jonathan.”

“That doesn’t matter!” Andrew insisted, a little shrilly. “It’s like - when they resurrected Spock with his katra in _The Search for Spock_ , he was still the same guy, even though he didn’t remember everything.”

“But it’s not just that I don’t remember. I didn’t _do_ it!”

Andrew wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“I’m not resurrected Spock,” Jonathan continued, quieter this time. “I’m more like . . . Tom Riddle, to the other Jonathan’s Voldemort. You know - ‘a memory preserved in a diary’. Except for me, it’s in a USB memory stick.”

“Don’t say that,” Andrew snapped. “You’re not Voldemort. Or Riddle. You’re _good_.”

“I was talking about the analogy,” Jonathan muttered evasively.

Andrew made a noncommittal sound and hunched his shoulders. Jonathan pulled his legs up onto the bench and wrapped his arms around his knees. There was a pause.

“I’m sorry,” Andrew said finally.

“Huh?”

“I know you’re not the same. I just - I don’t like thinking about it.”

Andrew had looked up, and was gazing steadily at Jonathan. His eyes were oddly red.

“When the rules of magic changed, this was supposed to be it. I was supposed to fix everything, put it all right. But I can’t, and - oh, I’m not sorry I brought you back or gave you a body - but I can’t fix things for the other Jonathan, the one who took care of me in Mexico, who promised me a burro. The one I _killed_. I was supposed to erase that with the new magic, but now I can’t. Not ever. His soul’s in heaven, and it’s going to stay there.”

“Well, it’s better that way, right?” Jonathan said, with an uneasy shrug. “I mean, you remember how Buffy was like. And you told me what Willow said about bringing Tara back. Same thing goes for the other me.”

“I don’t know,” Andrew replied miserably. “I know it’s not better to die at _twenty-two_. It’s not. And Buffy’s not sorry she’s back now. I really thought it would be better to bring him back. But - I don’t know anymore. I don’t know if there’s a right answer.” He sighed, and hung his head. “I don’t have the right to make that decision. Even if I could, I can’t erase what I did.”  

“I guess,” Jonathan said. He wasn’t entirely sure how he’d gotten pulled into this conversation. He’d never been particularly good at comforting or giving advice. But Andrew looked to be on the verge of tears - awkwardly, Jonathan reached out and patted his shoulder. “But, uh. You can move on from it, right? You’re a good friend to me.”

Andrew looked stricken. “No, I’m not! Even if you’re not the one I went all dark side betrayal on, I was still capable of doing that to you. You should hate me.”

“I don’t hate you!” Jonathan said sharply. “Okay? I don’t hate you.”

Andrew still looked miserable.

“I mean, I don’t think what you did to the other me was okay,” Jonathan continued. “And I hate it happened. But that’s not you anymore, right? I mean, I see what you do for Buffy and her friends, and I hear you call your old Slayers. And - I _want_ to forgive you, okay? So, can we put this behind us?”

And, finally, Andrew gave him a small, watery smile. It didn’t quite meet his eyes, but he nodded. “Alright.”

“Good.”

“And, uh. I’m sorry I keep treating you like both Jonathans.”

He shrugged. “I guess it’s pretty confusing.”

“A bit,” Andrew admitted. “Is there some way you want me to differentiate between you?”

Jonathan shook his head. “No - me and ‘other Jonathan’ works fine. I mean, I’m still _me_ , even if there’s another branch of me.”

“Okay,” Andrew said.

“And I _will_ pay you back for everything you do for me now. I don’t want to take your charity. Just wait until I get a job.”

“You really don’t have to pay me back,” Andrew protested. “I want to help!”

“Yeah, I know,” Jonathan replied. “But it’ll just make me feel better when I know I can pay you back, alright? I don’t like depending. And I’ve already done enough of that while being a hologram for a month.”

Andrew huffed. But, finally, he nodded.

“Still, thanks for everything,” Jonathan added. “It . . . it means a lot.”

“Anytime,” Andrew replied.

Jonathan relaxed and leaned back on the bench.

Several long moments passed like that. A light breeze finally stirred through the muggy air, and Jonathan turned his face slightly into the wind. Next to him, Andrew fidgeted quietly.

Then, a cheerful melody piped brightly from the other side of the park. Jonathan’s head swivelled around.

“Is that an ice cream truck?” he asked.

Andrew glanced over his shoulder toward the playground across the park. “Yeah,” he replied. “You want some?”

“Well . . . ,” Jonathan said uncertainly.

“I want some,” Andrew said, bouncing up from the bench. “And you can pay me back later, remember?”

“Okay, then.” He paused. “Do you think they still sell Sno-Cones?”

Andrew made a face. “Your first ice cream since you came back from the dead, and you want a _Sno-Cone_?”

“Hey, I like them!” Jonathan retorted defensively.

“Your loss. _I’m_ getting a King Cone.”

Together, the two of them made their way over to the ice cream truck, where Andrew paid for their cones. Then, they found refuge under a large oak tree and unpeeled their ice cream.

Andrew was watching Jonathan intently. Jonathan glanced at him, and lifted his eyebrows.

“Dude, what?”

“Nothing,” Andrew replied. “Just. Uh. I’ve had some glitches with this part of the program before.”

“Huh?”

“You know. Eating.”

Jonathan frowned, and tentatively licked at the top of his Sno-Cone. Artificial sweetness immediately flooded his tongue, and he let out a small sigh and let his eyes close. “Mm. Seems fine.”

“Well, let me know how you feel in a few hours.”

Jonathan slid one eye open to peer at him curiously, but Andrew had already busied himself with his own ice cream. Jonathan shrugged, and returned to his cone.

“Damn,” he muttered. “I forgot how good it was to taste.”

“I can’t believe you went five years without tasting anything,” Andrew replied sympathetically.

“Well, I wasn’t conscious most of it. So more like a month. Still - I missed this. So many flavors I need to have.”

When Jonathan looked up next, Andrew was looking at him, and there was a gleam in his eye.  

“ _What_?” Jonathan said again.

“I know where we’re going after IKEA.”

\----

Jonathan grunted as he dropped the last two bulging grocery bags on the kitchen floor.

“Seriously, Andrew,” he said. “This really isn’t all necessary.”

“One hundred and twelve percent necessary,” Andrew piped up. He was standing over by the fridge, where he was selecting eggs from a carton. He’d pulled on a red and black apron that was patterned like the _The Next Generation_ command uniform - along the collar, white embroidery read: “Captain Wells”. “Joseph Sisko is totally right about the importance of food. You gotta indulge, dude. Besides, I need to make sure that everything still tastes the same to you as it used to.”

“By making _everything_?” Jonathan said dubiously. “Aren’t there easier ways to test that? Like those papers dipped in chemicals?”

Andrew made a face. “Do you really wanna stick bits of chemical-ed paper in your mouth? Nu-uh, it’s more important to know you still like your favorite foods.”

“Oh. Um, okay.” Uncertainly, Jonathan shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

They’d spent much of the afternoon wandering their way through the enormous halls of IKEA, flipping over furniture tags as they perused the many bedroom displays. The trip had taken significantly longer than Jonathan had expected, mostly because because he’d never realized just how many options there could bein simply picking a bedframe. Four-poster or platform bed? Headboard? Bedstead? Andrew had dragged Jonathan away from peering at the cheapest frame in the store, saying: “Oh, ew, that’s white pine. It’ll warp on you - believe me, _so_ not worth it.”

And if _that_ wasn’t a jarring experience - Jonathan still remembered the childish, bumbling kid Andrew had been in the Trio, and here Andrew was offering him advice on _furniture woods._ For several long minutes after that, Jonathan had hung back silently and just watched. Andrew moved comfortably through the displays, confident and purposeful; he’d obviously had experience furnishing a home before. Jonathan had never done anything more than buy sheets for his dorm bed.

Several hours later, Jonathan left IKEA in ownership of a dark particlewood frame, navy linens, a three-drawer dresser, and an uncomfortable sense of just how much had changed while he’d been nothing more than a computer file on a memory stick. They’d arranged for the furniture to be delivered to Andrew’s house, and the flat boxes had arrived moments after they’d gotten back from the grocery store.

Now, he was standing by the door of the kitchen, restlessly shifting his weight from side to side. A contemplative look came over Jonathan’s face as he watched Andrew dart about the kitchen, alternating between putting away groceries and pulling out ingredients.

“So,” he said. “Uh, which meal are you making tonight?”

“Hmm.” Andrew had set four eggs at the far side of the counter, and was now pulling quarts of mushrooms from the vegetable drawer at the bottom of the fridge. “The white lasagna, garlic bread, french fries, and chocolate muffins.”

“All that?” Jonathan said. “But I don’t even _have_ to eat, you said. I have that - uh, battery.”

“Yeah. But, come on, do you really want a whimpy dinner for your first meal back?”

“I suppose not,” Jonathan conceded.

Andrew nodded approvingly as he wiped down a handful of cremini mushrooms with a damp cloth. “Oh, and we’ll also have strawberry ice cream with the muffins.”

Jonathan frowned. “But we didn’t get any ice cream.”

“No - I’m making it.”

“You’re making _ice cream_.”

Andrew nodded, and pointed over the fridge, where Jonathan noticed a tall, white appliance for the first time. “Xander and Dawn got me an ice cream maker for my birthday last year,” Andrew said cheerfully. “I haven’t had the chance to use it for a while, but I remember you liked strawberry - you would always finish the carton, and Warren . . . --”

But then Andrew trailed off, looking uncomfortable.

“Anyway,” he said quickly. “Dinner will be done in about two hours. I hope you’re not too hungry.”

“I’m fine,” Jonathan said, and he leaned up against the counter behind him. For a moment, he paused and peered down at his hands, which were curled around the edge of the counter. “Out of curiosity, what’s the point of getting hungry if I don’t have to eat?”

“Organic mimicry?” Andrew offered. “I mean, they say ‘hunger is the finest sauce’, you know? But you can turn it off if you want.”   

“Oh,” Jonathan replied.

He could choose to not to feel hunger. He stared down at his hands and brushed his thumb against his palm. It should bother him, he thought, to realize just how much this robot body was different from a human one - how different _he_ was from everyone else. But . . . it could be worse. He’d had a month to get used to the idea of being a robot, and from the beginning, the idea of a corporeal body of any sort had seemed like a blessing. The science fiction novelty of being a hologram wore off quickly.

Andrew had begun chopping the mushrooms now. The knife was quick and steady in his hands, and it was with a single, fluid motion that he lifted the cutting board and swept the mushrooms into a saucepan.

“Can I help?” Jonathan asked.

“Yeah, actually,” Andrew replied. He set down the knife and with one hand, he pulled out his iPod - no, i _Phone_ , Jonathan corrected himself, as Andrew placed the black rectangle in his hands. “Can you pull up the recipes for me? The passcode is seventeen-oh-one.”

Jonathan peered down at the phone. It was hard to believe that the same company that had put out the clunky white MP3 player he’d used in college was developing gadgets like _these_ now. With slightly awkward fingers, he pressed the center button - and then scowled down at the image on the lockscreen.

“Cyclops, seriously?” he said accusingly. “That dude is _so_ bad for the X-Men.”

“Hey, just because he makes tough decisions--!”

“He’s like the worst leader of the X-Men ever! He makes Wolverine do his dirty work to assassinate anyone _he_ deems a threat to mutants!” Jonathan crossed his arms and huffed. “Anyone elsewould be a better leader than him.”

“Dude, don’t be unfair to Scott! I mean, he’s the one who kept everyone together during Chris Claremont’s run.” Andrew shot Jonathan a wry grin as he ran the cutting board under a stream of hot water. “But I’ll admit that I prefer it when Professor X is in charge. I kinda like his suits, you know?”

Jonathan paused, his mouth half-open.

A month hanging around this older, more mature Andrew, and he still hadn’t shaken the habits of their old bickering. Jonathan had tensed his shoulders, prepared to be called “Whineathan” or “leprechaun”; a biting retort had been ready on his own tongue. But Andrew had just _grinned_ at him.

Jonathan dropped his gaze back to the phone. Nervously, he shoved one hand into his jeans pocket as he struggled to change tracks.  “Um. Right,” he said. “Uh. Did you just call _Professor X_ attractive? I’m worried about you, dude.”

He’d tried to force a light, playful tone into his voice, but it still wavered somewhat.

The intention must have been clear enough, though; Andrew’s ears went slightly pink. “I just said the suits were nice!” he protested.

“ _Nice_. Right,” Jonathan teased.

Andrew made a face and chucked at mushroom stem at him. It bounced off his forehead, and Jonathan snorted.  

“Did you get those recipes?” Andrew said pointedly.

Jonathan rolled his eyes and then glanced back down at the phone. “What app do you need me to go into?”

“Epicurious. Pull up the lasagna recipe I have saved there?”

Jonathan did so, and he propped the phone up on the counter next to Andrew’s cutting board.

“Thanks,” Andrew said, now squinting down at the screen.

“Sure,” Jonathan replied. “Do you need anything else?”

“Not really. I mean, you can hang out here and chat if you want, or just go do your own thing. I’ll come find you when dinner’s done.”

“Right,” Jonathan said. “I guess, I’ll go - read, or something.”

“Okay,” Andrew replied. He was now pressing garlic cloves with the flat of his knife.

Jonathan pushed himself away from the counter and made his way out of the kitchen.

His feet carried him downstairs, through the living room, to Andrew’s old workshop. Jonathan’s new furniture was still packed up in their flat boxes, which were leaning against the wall by the door with the new mattress, and there was a small stack of fresh clothing settled at the foot of the boxes. Andrew’s workshop tools hadn’t yet been moved out, so Jonathan sat down on the workbench by the window and turned to look outside.

He unlatched the window and pushed it open. Even with the late afternoon sun hanging low in the sky, a wave of heat rolled in from the Indian summer outside. The sensation of changing temperature still sent a little thrill through Jonathan; he let his eyes slide shut and leaned back against the wall.

The day before Jonathan’s consciousness had been downloaded onto the memory stick, he and Andrew had had a fight. That wasn’t surprising; they’d always been fighting back then.

He’d come back to the lair that afternoon to a truly horrible rendition of “Faith of the Heart”. He winced at the off-key melody and came down the stairs with his hands over his ears.

“Andrew, what the hell? Is there a cat _dying_ in here?”

Andrew, who’d been dancing in front of the television with his _Star Trek Original Series_ communicator held out like a microphone, suddenly froze. He shot Jonathan a dark scowl. “Very funny, Jerkathan.”

Jonathan dropped his bag on the ground and sat down on the edge of the couch. On the coffee table in front of him, there was a glass of water and a small pile of comics that Andrew had apparently abandoned when the _Star Trek: Enterprise_ rerun had come on the television. That was unusual; Warren had a strict ‘no food or drink near the paper goods’ rule. Jonathan looked around the room. “Where’s Warren?”

“Out.”

“Well, _yeah_. I figured that much. Where did he go?”

But Andrew just crossed his arms and lifted his chin importantly. “It’s confidential,” he declared.

Jonathan glared. “I’m _part_ of this gang, you know. I get in on the confidential!”

“Nu-uh. Warren said it was a secret. ‘Cause of deniable plausibility.”

“Plausible deniability,” Jonathan corrected irritably. “And that only applies if we get caught! Which we don’t.”

“Yeah, well, Warren’s just being cautious.”

Jonathan snorted. “I don’t believe you. You probably don’t know where Warren is either.”  

“I do, too!” Andrew protested.

“Then where is he?”

“I-I can’t tell! That’s the point of confidentiality!”

Jonathan just sighed and leaned back on the couch. “Even if it is confidential, he didn’t tell you. For all you go on about being his Number One, Warren thinks he doesn’t need anyone. He doesn’t care about us.”

“D-don’t talk about him like that!” Andrew snapped, crossing his arms. “My aunt says that if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.”

Jonathan shot him a disbelieving scowl. “Yeah, as if _you_ ever take that advice.”

“Shut up, dumb-droid.”

Jonathan snorted, and got up from the couch. There was a Captain America issue hanging off the edge of the coffee table; he picked it up.

“Hey, that’s mine!” Andrew protested.

“I’ll give it back. Besides, you were reading my Incredible Hulk volumes yesterday.”

“But I’m not done with that!” Andrew said. He lunged across the table to snatch at the issue - and his elbow caught the glass of water.

The glass clattered as it fell over, and the water splashed all across the table, soaking the rest of the comics still lying there. Andrew cried out and snatched up the comics, but the pages were already dripping.

“Look what you did!” he demanded, shaking the drenched comics in Jonathan’s face. “You ruined them!”

“Hey, that was _your_ water, and _you’re_ the one who knocked it over!”

“Yeah, but I wouldn’t have knocked it over if I didn’t have to take back the issue you were trying to stealfrom me!”

“I was _borrowing_!” Jonathan snapped.

Andrew shoved at him, hard. Jonathan tossed down the Captain America issue onto the couch and shoved back.

By the time Warren returned to the lair, Jonathan had a bloody nose, and Andrew’s right shin was badly bruised. They were sitting as far away from each other as possible on the couch, and were pointedly not looking at each other.

“Hey, guys,” Warren said cheerfully as he came down the stairs. “I was just doing some maintenance on Spike’s robot, and--” He paused, and glanced between Jonathan and Andrew. A small smirk played at his lips as he took in their dishevelled appearance. “What happened to you two?”

“Nothing,” Andrew and Jonathan said together.

“Were you fighting again?” Without waiting for a reply, Warren crossed the room and sprawled out in the swivel chair by his desk. “See, there’s a reason _I’m_ leader,” he said. “Anyway, I was working on the bot, and I had an idea about a kind of backup plan for a worst-case scenario. Come over here and I’ll show you guys.”

As they stood, Andrew paused to aim a kick at Jonathan’s ankle. Jonathan yelped, and glowered.

That was the last memory Jonathan had had of Andrew, and then he was waking up as a hologram in the ruins of Sunnydale. It felt as if his kid brother had become an adult in a matter of hours. Instead of snapping at him over waterlogged comic books and bloodying his nose, Andrew was suddenly _looking after_ Jonathan.

Jonathan supposed that something inside him had always expected that as soon as he had a body again, Andrew would return to his old self - that once Jonathan was corporeal, they’d be bickering and wrestling just like they always had. But now Andrew was buying him furniture; at that moment, he was upstairs cooking a certifiable feast. It seemed that, maybe, Andrew’s behavior over the past month wasn’t just out of some temporary sense of guilt. Somewhere along the line, Andrew really hadgrown up.

It wasn’t that Jonathan missed those fights. It was nice, he thought, not to have to worry about being called names or shoved at when Andrew disagreed with him. But when your best friend had suddenly become a responsible taxpayer, sometimes you couldn’t help feeling a little left behind.  

Jonathan pushed himself up from the workbench and stood. Hands in his pockets, he surveyed the room Andrew was giving him: it wasn’t large, but it was more than enough. Sunlight filtered in through two sets of double windows, and the wooden floor was cool on his feet. And once Jonathan’s things were moved in, it would be his.

Jonathan glanced down at the workbench he’d been sitting on. Evidence of Andrew’s work from the past month was scattered across the desk; there were coils of wire, clippers, alligator clips, and soldering tools, all tangled together. At one side of the desk stood a tall pile of papers, all covered in blueprint sketches and hastily scribbled equations. The top page featured a pencil sketch of Jonathan’s hand.

Jonathan pulled one hand out of his pocket and rested it on the desk next to the drawing. The metal of the surface was cool under his fingers - fingers Andrew had built.

Absently, Jonathan began collecting scraps of insulating plastic from the desk. He dropped them into the recycling bin, which was already mostly full with empty cans of Red Bull. Then he untangled the wires and wound them back up into neat bundles. He organized the alligator clips by color and slipped the clippers into a drawer on the desk. The stack of paper he largely left alone, but he straightened a few sheets at the top of the pile.

When the desk was neat, he went over to the flat boxes leaning up against the wall, and pulled the first one down onto the floor. It was his dresser; the box was heavy, but the weight felt good in his arms. He peeled open the cardboard at the top and pulled out the instructions.

By the time the door opened, two hours later, Jonathan was pushing a finished bedframe up against an empty wall. A dresser stood at the other side of the room, and the cleaned desk stood neatly in one corner.

“You did everything yourself?” Andrew said, blinking around at the room. One hand was still resting on the doorknob, having frozen there when he opened the door. “I would’ve helped!”

Jonathan shrugged. “You were cooking.”

“Yeah, but I was gonna help after dinner.”

Jonathan straightened and looked down at his fingers. “It was fine,” he said. He turned his hands over and stretched out the fingers. “It was nice to be able to make something.”

Andrew still looked a little chagrined to have missed out at putting together the furniture, but at Jonathan’s words, he nodded. “Well, at least let me help you with this, “ he said. He moved around to the other side of the bedframe and crouched down.

Jonathan took his side of the bed, and together they lifted the frame and slid it up against the wall.

As soon the bedframe was in place, Andrew bounced up. “Let’s get the rest of your bed made, and then we’ll go have dinner.” The new mattress was still leaning up against the far wall, and he pulled it down.

Jonathan helped him lug it over. Andrew slipped one hand under the mattress to lift it up - but then, as they dropped the mattress down onto the frame, he yelped.

Jonathan looked at him sharply.

“My thumb,” Andrew whine, and tugged his hand out from under the mattress. He scowled at the offending finger. “I stubbed it.” With a petulant ‘humph’, he stuck the knuckle into his mouth.

Jonathan startled even himself by bursting into laughter.

“What?” Andrew said, still sucking on his knuckle. His tone was honestly curious - not defensive.

“It’s nothing,” Jonathan replied. “Just - you’ve talked about all the times you’ve been injured working in the line of good, and I know you’re not lying ‘cause I’ve seen the scars. And now you’re complaining about a stubbed thumb.”

“Well, it _hurts_ ,” Andrew said stubbornly.

But a pleased expression had crossed his face, and after a moment, he took the thumb out of his mouth and looked down at his hands - there was a silvery scar across one palm from a run in with a sword back in Rome.

“I suppose I am kinda rugged now, aren’t I?” he said finally.

Again, Jonathan laughed.

Sometimes, it might seem as if this older, more mature Andrew was a stranger - but, in some ways, his best friend hadn’t changed at all.  

\----

“Are you sure you don’t want another muffin?” Andrew asked, holding the platter out to Jonathan. There were still a dozen muffins left on the plate.

“I’m stuffed,” Jonathan said apologetically. “They were really good, though. Thanks.”

Andrew looked a little put-out, but he nodded and moved away to put the platter back on the counter.

The table was covered in the remains of their dinner - in his enthusiasm for cooking Jonathan’s first real meal since his return, Andrew had made enough for a small party. The bowl of fries was still more than half full, and they’d barely made a dent in the enormous lasagna. Jonathan wasn’t entirely sure how Andrew would find enough room in his fridge for all the leftovers.

But the dinner had been restaurant perfect. Jonathan had watched Andrew cook a few times over the past month, and it’d been clear by the ease with which he’d moved through the kitchen that Andrew had been practicing his culinary skills. But Jonathan had never before had the chance to _taste_ what Andrew was making; the flavor spoke more to Andrew’s growth of experience than just watching his knife skills ever could. Jonathan had eaten almost three slices of lasagna before deciding he was full - and that’d been _before_ Andrew had pulled out the bowl of homemade ice cream, in Jonathan’s favorite flavor.

And it’d all felt exactly like it had before. Eating, tasting, the shift from hunger to satiation and even past, to the point of uncomfortable fullness. It’d been like hundreds of meals he’d had as a kid - the robot body mimicked everything perfectly.

“What do you wanna watch tonight?” Andrew asked, as he began piling dirty pans into the sink. “We can probably get in an episode before I have to go to bed.”

As Jonathan stood to help clear the dishes from the table, he turned to glance out the window; the sun had only just set. “You have work tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Didn’t I mention? Maria has a thing, so I’m covering her shift.”

“Oh, right. Okay.”

Andrew’s odd work hours at the bakery had been an ever-present pulse over the past month. His hours even dictated when Jonathan switched his holographic program between sleep and active mode, because being confined to the house week after week was even less appealing when there was no one else home. But now - Jonathan could walk out the front door whenever he pleased.

“I should try to find a job tomorrow,” Jonathan said, as he brought the plates over to the sink.

Andrew glanced over his shoulder at him. “What sort of thing are you going to look for?”

“I dunno. I mean, I guess I never finished college--” At that, Andrew winced, and Jonathan broke off to level him a hard stare. “Before I was _downloaded_ ,” he added firmly. “But I had a job at the movie theater back in Sunnydale for a bit, so maybe something like that?”

“Paramount has that theater here where they do premiere viewings of their productions,” Andrew said helpfully. “I don’t know if they’re hiring, but it might be worth a shot.”

“Maybe,” Jonathan muttered. “Although the Sunnydale theater, uh, probably would have difficulty giving me a reference now. And that’s not even talking about ID . . .”

“That’s handled.”

Jonathan glanced at Andrew, who shrugged.

“What? Manufacturing identity comes in handy even when you’re a good guy. We’ve got resources.”

“Oh, uh. Okay.”

“Although, seriously, you just mention you’re from Sunnydale, and people are going to give you slack. A lot of people lost ID in that.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Jonathan said. “Um. Thanks.”

“Sure,” Andrew replied. “Good luck.”

There was a pause.

Then: “So, episode,” Andrew said again. “What do you want to watch?”

Jonathan rolled his eyes as he walked back toward the table to collect the used cutlery. “Dunno. I mean, we were watching _Heroes_ yesterday, right?”

“We can do that,” Andrew agreed. “Or like, work a bit on _Enterprise_?”

“Hell, no.” Jonathan snorted. “They screwed up big time when they cancelled. I’m savoring the re--”

He was passing by the window, and suddenly froze. One foot still half off the ground, he turned to stare properly outside.

“Uh, Andrew,” he said. “Did you know you have a dog in your front yard?”

“What? No, I don’t have a dog.”

“You do now - look!” Jonathan grabbed Andrew’s elbow and dragged him to the window. He pointed; a small beagle was sniffing around the bottom step leading to Andrew’s front door.

Andrew blinked. “Huh,” he said.

“There’s no one around,” Jonathan added, glancing to either end of sidewalk outside. “Must have gotten lost.”

“Poor guy,” Andrew said sympathetically. “C’mon, let’s go bring him inside!”

“Wait, Andrew--”

But Andrew had already scrambled away, and Jonathan heard the front door open. Jonathan hurried after him.

By the time Jonathan reached the entryway, Andrew was already crouched on the grass in front of the dog. He had one hand held out in front of him, and the dog was peering at him curiously with a cocked head. Its tail was wagging, and as Jonathan watched, the dog sniffed Andrew’s hand, and then enthusiastically licked his fingers.

“Aw, look, Jonathan!” Andrew said brightly as he scratched at the dog’s ears. “He likes me!”

The dog looked up, gaze following Andrew’s attention. Its eyes lit on Jonathan, who was now standing at the top step in front of Andrew’s door. The tail started wagging faster, and the dog ducked out from under Andrew’s hand.

Jonathan took a step back.

He’d never been a huge fan of strange dogs. This one was at least small - but what if it could tell he wasn’t quite human? Andrew may have programmed sweat and whatever other functions to mimic the human body, but under all that, Jonathan was sure he smelled like electronic gadgetry. What if that freaked out the dog?

But before Jonathan could slip back into the house, the dog had already bounded up the steps and lifted its head to sniff at the hand hanging by Jonathan’s side. He froze.

Then, the dog barked - and its tail was wagging harder than ever. It crouched down, rump high in the air. When Jonathan just blinked at it, the dog barked again.

“He wants to play!” Andrew said helpfully.

A small, shy smile tugged at Jonathan’s lips. The dog wanted to play with a _robot_. It must have been able to smell the circuits and wires and every synthetic component that made up his body - and yet, here the dog was staring hopefully up at him, ears perked, as if Jonathan were any other potential human playmate.

Jonathan knelt down. The dog bounded up to him, and Jonathan scratched at its ears as he’d seen Andrew do. The dog wriggled its head under his hand and managed to lick at his wrist.

“Porthos likes you, too!” Andrew said, as he stood and brushed grass off his knees.

“Porthos?” Jonathan echoed. He found the dog’s collar and checked the tags. He frowned. “Andrew, _her_ name is Tanya. She’s not even a boy dog.”

“All beagles are Porthos,” Andrew said stubbornly.

Jonathan rolled his eyes, but he was grinning. “We should probably call _Tanya_ ’s owner. I’ve got the number and address here.”

“Yeah, I suppose they’re probably worried. You wanna get my phone? It’s still in the kitchen.”

“Sure.”

Jonathan straightened. Tanya whined unhappily as he stood, but when Andrew came up the steps, she cheerfully bounced over to him instead.

Inside, Jonathan found the phone propped up on the counter where he’d left it for Andrew, several hours earlier. He picked it up, and returned to the front door.

“Here you go,” he said, holding the phone out to Andrew.

But Tanya had rolled over, and Andrew looked reluctant to stop rubbing her belly. “You want to make the call?” he suggested hopefully.

“But I’m, uh, not very good with your phone. I don’t know how--”

“Unlock, hit ‘phone’, then ‘keypad’,” Andrew replied.

“Um. Okay.” Jonathan followed Andrew’s instructions, albeit slowly. When the keypad sprang up, he felt a slight thrill of accomplishment. “Hey, budge over,” he told Andrew. “I need to see that number again.”

Andrew obeyed, and Jonathan crouched down next to him. He punched in the number from the tag, and held the phone up to his ear.

On the third ring, the other end picked up.

“Hello?”

It was a woman’s voice. She sounded somewhat frazzled and distracted.

“Um, hi,” Jonathan replied. “Um. My name is Jonathan Levinson. I, uh, found your dog?”

“ _Tanya!_ ” The woman let out a groan of frustration. “She got out _again_? Where is she? Is she okay?”

“Yeah, she’s fine. She just wandered a couple blocks over - my friend and I found her outside our house.”

“Oh, thank goodness. Thank you so much for finding her!” There was a shuffling on the other end, and when the woman spoke next, her voice was suddenly much clearer, as if her mouth was closer to the microphone. “Where are you? I’m at the grocery store right now, and if it’s okay, I’ll come stop by on my way home?”

But before Jonathan could reply, the woman rushed on:

“Oh wait, crap, I can’t do that; I’ve got all this stuff, and I can’t control Tanya _and_ carry these groceries at the same time. So, uh, I suppose I’ll drop my stuff of and _then_ come to your place - I’m so sorry, but do you think you could hold onto her for another half hour or forty-five minutes or so? That will give me time to get home, put  the groceries away, then get to your place--”

“Um,” Jonathan interrupted meekly. “Would you rather I walk her over to your place? I-I’m not doing anything, and it would only take me twenty minutes to get there.”

“Oh! Uh, I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“No, really, it’s fine. I don’t mind.”

“If you’re sure, that would be really appreciated, actually,” the woman said. “I’ll meet you there, then. Twenty minutes you said?”

“Yeah.”

“Great. Thank you so, so, _so_ much!”

“Um, yeah. Sure. See you, then.”

As Jonathan hung up, Andrew glanced at him, one hand still rubbing Tanya’s belly. “You’re going over now?” he asked.

“Yeah, I guess,” Jonathan replied. He passed the phone over.  

Andrew took it and stowed it in his pocket. “So, no episode tonight,” he said. His voice was casual, but a faint shadow of disappointment crossed his face.

“Sorry,” Jonathan said. “Uh, tomorrow, I promise. I just - um, to be honest, I don’t really want to sit in front of the TV right now. That’s kind of all I did last month.”

Andrew blinked, as if perplexed by the idea of _too_ much TV. “Oh. Right. Okay. We don’t have to tomorrow either, if you don’t want--”

“No, I do!” Jonathan interrupted hastily. “I want to finish _Heroes_ and _Enterprise_. Just - not tonight. And Tanya’s owner is busy right now, so I thought . . .” He trailed off, and shrugged.

“Hey, it’s cool,” Andrew said. “The seasons discs will still be available whenever you wanna watch. But I suppose I should probably start getting ready for bed and work tomorrow, so I’ll see you when you get back, okay?”

“Sure. But, uh, could you grab me some rope from your workshop? I need to make a leash for Tanya.”

“From your _room_ ,” Andrew corrected cheerfully. “Yeah, no problem. And I’ll move the rest of my stuff out of there tomorrow.”

“Uh, right. Thanks.”

With one last pat to Tanya’s belly, Andrew stood. Tanya rolled back onto her paws and tried to follow after him into the house.

“No, stay - _staaay_ ,” Andrew said firmly to her.

Tanya whined pitifully.

“No, don’t try to go all Krypto puppy eyes on me! Look, I’m leaving you here with Jonathan - you like Jonathan, remember?”

Evidently, Tanya agreed, because when Andrew pointed at Jonathan, she obediently scurried over to him, tail wagging. Jonathan bent down to pat her head. Tanya promptly rolled onto her back again.

A few minutes later, Andrew returned. In his hand, he had rope, on which he’d tied a slipknot at one end. “Here you go,” he said, as he crouched down and threaded the loose end through the ring on Tanya’s collar. “How’s that?”

Jonathan gently pushed Tanya back onto her paws, and then gave the rope an experimental tug. The knot held firm. “I think that’s good. Thanks.”

“I’m gonna miss girl-Porthos,” Andrew sighed.

Jonathan lifted his eyebrows. “You barely met her,” he pointed out.

“Yeah, well, she’s adorable. Maybe I should think about getting a pet - I mean, if you’re okay with that.”

Jonathan blinked. “Huh? Me?”

“ _Permission_ ,” Andrew said proudly. “I’ve gotten better at this, see? You’re my housemate now, so I’m not gonna get a puppy or anything unless it’s cool with you.”

Housemate. That implied Andrew thought of Jonathan as having an equal claim on the house. Not just a room or a handful of furniture. The home.

Feeling the back of his neck grow warm, Jonathan glanced down at Tanya. She’d found his ankles and was snuffling at his socks.

“I-I dunno,” Jonathan muttered. “I mean . . . I, uh . . .”

“You don’t have to decide _right now_ ,” Andrew interrupted. “I mean, you can just, think about it. You know?”

Jonathan looked at him; Andrew had a hand on his own hip in a show of affected casualness, but he hadn’t really been able to disguise the hopefulness in his expression.

Tanya was tugging on Jonathan’s socks now. Carefully, Jonathan reached down and pulled her off. “A cat,” he said finally.

“What?”

“I’m cool with getting a cat. If you want a pet.”

Immediately, Andrew’s eyes lit up. “Oh! Okay, yeah. Great! I-I mean, if you’re sure.”

“Yeah, I am. I’ve had cats; they’re cool.” Jonathan shrugged. “But, uh, we should probably talk more about it later. I promised Tanya’s owner I’d be there soon.”

“Right,” Andrew replied.. “I’ll see you later, then. And if I’m already in bed by the time you get back, have a good evening!”

“You too. See you later.”

Andrew bent to give Tanya one last pat, then stepped inside.

But as he went to close the door, Jonathan suddenly called out: “Wait - Andrew!”

Andrew paused, and looked at him.

Suddenly self-conscious, Jonathan stuffed his hands in his pockets and dropped his gaze. “I just . . . I wanted to say. Thanks - for everything today. It was a good first day. Really.”

Andrew grinned. “Sure. We’ll just have to make tomorrow the even-better sequel!”

“Better sequel? Do those exist?”

“Hey, _Blade II_ is a thing, isn’t it?”

“That’s debatable.”

Andrew rolled his eyes, and with a loud, over-dramatic sigh, said: “See you _later_ , Jonathan!”

Laughing, Jonathan set off down the sidewalk.

 

 

 


End file.
